Severus Snape Did Not Like It at All
by Laura of Maychoria
Summary: Snape deals with being stuck in bloody North America with the incapacitated savior of the wizarding world. As he hates kittens and apple pie and everything, really, this is torture. AU, not slash, rather dark, some humor, implied abuse.
1. Kittens

_Title: _Severus Snape Did Not Like It At All  
_Author:_ Laura of Maychoria  
_Summary:_ Snape deals with being stuck in bloody North America with the incapacitated savior of the wizarding world. As he hates kittens and apple pie and everything, really, this is torture. AU, not slash, rather dark, some humor, implied abuse.  
_Author's Note:_ I've been reading way too much Potterfic lately, and this just sort of came out. I don't know if I'll ever do anything with it. It will probably stay as simply a vignette, but if I get enough pleas and puppy dog eyes I may possibly be inspired to write more. Or I might not. Or I might get inspired without any encouragement at all, just to be annoying. In other words, anything is possible. This is basically just me writing the sort of thing I enjoy reading.  
_Disclaimer:_ Not mine. Not getting paid.  
**  
1: Kittens**

Severus Snape did not like it at all. Any of it. He hated every last thing.

He always had, really. The Hogwarts staff had recently filled out a survey, a very basic thing with questions like, "What aspects of the course of work at Hogwarts seem effective?" and "Which aspects do you think could be improved?" When Snape came to the question that inquired, very simply, "What do you like about your experience of teaching at Hogwarts?" he had stared at the parchment for a full ten minutes.

And then wrote: "The free quills are high-quality."

And now here he was, without even the free quills. Stuck in bloody North America with a teenager who was expected to save the world. While all of Wizarding England burnt to the ground.

Except that this teenager was currently incapacitated. Barely able to feed himself, his hands shook so badly. Literally afraid of his own shadow. Jumped when the fire crackled. And endlessly terrified of Snape, his only human contact.

At least he managed the loo all right. Thank Merlin for small favors.

Snape buried the growl in his throat, tugging on his ridiculous muggle t-shirt to straighten it. It was horrifyingly cheerful, a sunshine-y light blue with a silk-screen of a . . . basketful of kittens.

Kittens. On his shirt. It was humiliating in the extreme.

But the shirt had cost only a single American dollar at the local thrift store. As Snape was currently hiding out, struggling desperately to put the traumatized savior of the wizarding world back together while avoiding all contact with the world in question, money was a bit tight. He had grown to . . . appreciate thrift stores. Not like. He did not like anything.

He especially did not like these stupid "blue jeans," which were a rather faded grey, and a bit too small, which meant that they rode up in . . . erm. In an uncomfortable place.

Well, the clothes certainly were not getting any more comfortable. There was absolutely no point in lollygagging about his bedroom anymore.

Snape ran a hand distractedly through his hair as he crossed to the door. Most of his hair had been cut off when they went into hiding. He still wasn't used to the shorter length, barely long enough for a good distracted hand-running anymore, and he found himself touching it at odd moments, as if reminding himself of how much had changed in the last two weeks. It was not comforting at all, yet some twisted part of him found it steadying, like a tether to his old life. Because after all, hair could grow out. Some things could go back to the way they were.

And others couldn't. Snape paused in the doorway of the kitchen, an annoyingly adolescent sigh pushing at his lips, demanding release. His young student . . . ward, responsibility, burden, enemy, last-chance-at-redemption, _whatever!_ . . . sat at the table in the wash of early sunlight from the bay window with his usual dazed, empty stare, shoulders slumped, hands in his lap, lips slightly parted, unhealthy color in his cheeks. He looked like a small child recently roused from sleep, hair rumpled, glasses askew. At least he'd managed to dress himself this morning, albeit a bit crookedly. No shoes. But then it wasn't as if he'd be going outside anytime soon.

Snape let the sigh go as he crossed to the fridge, gentling his voice with great effort. The boy did not respond well to harsh tones. He had discovered this the hard way. Repeatedly. "Would you like some cereal, Harry?"

Harry closed his mouth and nodded slightly, once. He did not look at his professor. He rarely did.

The man fetched two bowls and spoons, cereal, milk, juice, napkins. Two weeks ago he would just be making some toast for himself. Through trial and error he had learned that Harry favored the disgustingly sweet cereal that resembled cartoon characters—Snape liked the one that looked like yellow pebbles. He poured for them both, added a careful dollop of milk to the boy's bowl, watched him handle his spoon. The young hand wasn't shaking too badly yet today. He knew it would get worse.

Harry kept his head lowered, holding his spoon in his fist like a toddler, so that his elbow bobbed up and down as he ate. The milk in his bowl turned a sickly shade of pink from the "marshmallows" as Snape watched, morbidly fascinated. He turned his attention back to his own food, knowing that the boy would just get more nervous if he noticed he was being scrutinized.

Harry tugged at the collar of his green shirt unconsciously, as if it was too tight, though Snape knew it was the right size—if anything, a bit big for him. The boy often seemed bewildered by his clothes, as if he had not grown up in the muggle world at all. Snape knew he remembered. It was the wizarding world that had been blanked from his mind. Yet another incomprehensibility to add to the list. And it was a long list.

The boy ate almost half of the cereal before stopping and staring at it in dismay, an improvement from yesterday. He glanced up at Snape, then away, as if asking permission. In the first few days Harry had wordlessly asked permission for almost everything—eating, moving, breathing—trembling all the while, expecting a blow. In retrospect, it hadn't been all that difficult for Snape to learn to gentle his voice. He simply could not be angry with such a pitiful child. Exasperated, yes. Frustrated, certainly. But not angry. Not with Harry.

"You may go, " Snape said gently. "Please drink a little more of the juice, first."

Harry made a face, then froze and looked up wide-eyed, as if he had just committed a grave sin.

Snape actually chuckled lightly. Snape! Chuckling at Harry Potter! "It's all right. You're allowed to dislike it. Just drink it anyway."

Harry nodded quickly and picked up the glass, the orange liquid sloshing a bit in his shaky grip. Snape was very pleased, actually. The boy had shown his first sign of being a normal teenager since they had arrived in this little cottage in the middle of nowhere. And wasn't that a miracle to chalk up with the parting of the Red Sea, Severus Snape being pleased that a youngster had made a face at him.

The boy managed about a third of the juice, grimacing all the while, then made his escape to the living room. He liked to sit curled up by the big picture window, watching the birds fly outside. Their landlady, a distant cousin of Snape's, kept a number of well-stocked birdfeeders in the backyard, and even Snape was impressed by the variety of feathered folk that came to visit.

Snape ate his cereal, his upper lip twisting a bit as he pondered the boy, careful not to look at him. Nobody had suspected. Not all the teachers who were so enamored with the Golden Boy, not the Headmaster, not the doting Weasleys, not even Harry's mangy godfather. No one had guessed. No one had asked.

Well, and why should they have? Harry had never shown any signs of abuse. He'd never flinched from an upraised hand or angry voice, never blanched at the threat of punishment, never avoided attention. Even in that first year, when Harry had been so small and skinny and pale, no one had thought to ask whether or not that was entirely normal. He'd been raised by muggles—obviously there were going to be some differences there. No one had thought it odd when he begged so earnestly to be allowed to stay over holiday. They had all assumed that he was simply fascinated with magic, and wanted to stay near it. A natural response, nothing to take note of or worry about.

Nothing to worry about.

Snape scowled at his empty cereal bowl and pushed it away. Five years, and no one had noticed. Not even he, who prided himself on his observational skills. He'd seen a spoiled brat who basked in the spotlight of undeserved celebrity. The other teachers had seen a bright youngster who did relatively well in all his classes, excelling in a few. The boy's friends saw a normal teenager with normal teenage problems. Dumbledore saw a . . . Snape wasn't sure what Dumbledore had seen. A weapon, most likely, just growing into his strength, needing to be tempered and readied for war.

And now they were all gone. It was just Snape and the savior of the wizarding world now, Hogwarts' most hated professor and the broken, helpless Boy-Who-Just-Kept-Living.

In desperation, Snape had gone to the library in this podunk little town, and checked out a number of books. They had given him knowledge, but no insight. Words and phrases buzzed about his skull, mocking him. He had always believed that knowing his enemy was half the battle, but in this case, he feared that it was only a first step in a very long and arduous journey.

He considered the words, rolling them over his mental tongue as he surreptitiously studied his young problem . . . student. "Regression," "elective mutism," "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," "selective amnesia."

That last one was a kicker. Apparently, in that explosion of power and pain two weeks ago, Harry's mind had decided to forget certain things. So why had he chosen to forget the last five years, his life as a wizard? Could it really have been worse than his life as a muggle? Snape had caught glimpses of the boy's remaining memories in careful, desperate attempts at legilimency just to understand what was going on, and he could not see how it could have been worse. He did not know what event had caused the boy to shut off that part of his life.

He needed to know. And there was no one to tell him.

It was time to try something different. They had fallen into a bit of a routine: Snape avoiding Harry because he didn't know how to deal with him, Harry avoiding Snape because he was terrified. What really got Snape about that last was that Harry was not afraid of his "greasy git" of a Potions Master who had persecuted, belittled, and mocked him for the past five years, for he did not remember any of that. He was simply afraid of a man. Snape could have been the headmaster, or the boy's godfather, or even his real father, and Harry would still fear him.

It was very irritating. Five years of hard work, teaching proper respect—five years shot all to pieces.

He supposed he should be grateful, really, Snape admitted grudgingly. This way he had at least an outside chance of earning the boy's trust. As much as any other random stranger, anyway. Oh, who was he kidding? It was doomed from the start.

Yes, it was definitely time to try something different. Unfortunately, he hadn't a clue of what that might be.  



	2. Apple Pie

**A/N: **Well, I don't know what the heck I'm doing with this story, but I kept getting reviews, so I thought I'd give it a go. The thing is that I'm not good at writing humor. I mean, really. I'm horrible. I'm much better at writing dark angsty stuff designed to break your heart, and then fix it again with lots and lots of gratuitous mush. But I started this story with a kind of weird humor, so I'm going to be trying to keep it up. Don't be surprised if the tone slips a bit, though.

Oh, and thanks for reviewing! I wouldn't write this if you didn't.

**2: Apple Pie**

Snape didn't get to the door fast enough. The chime was still ringing when he reached for the handle and the door flew inward on its own impetus, smacking him in the face. "Bloody American impatience," he mumbled, fingering his nose and glaring at his visitor.

She wasn't the least bit put off. "Severus! I brought you supper."

Severus looked blankly at the covered pot in his cousin's hands. "Libby, this really isn't the time . . ."

"Nonsense." She shoved the pot into his hands and trekked backed toward her car, parked crookedly along the street. Snape stared after her, then looked down at the warm pot, seriously considering whether or not to just chuck it into the overgrown bushes beside the door.

He was distracted by the savory smell leaking from beneath the lid. They hadn't had anything besides pre-packaged, re-warmed food for days . . .

Snape remembered to scowl when Libby returned carrying a pie plate, a covered basket hung dangerously on her elbow. "Is this some strange American tradition? Irritating your neighbors at all hours, ringing the doorbell 'til it nearly falls off, and dumping hot dishes into their laps?"

"You mean bringing home-cooked meals to welcome newcomers to the neighborhood? Oh yes. Also for relatives to bring over meals when someone is laid up. How is the poor kiddo?"

Snape stared at her blankly for a long moment.

"Your young apprentice or special student or whatever? The one you said you brought here to convalesce from some strange European disease I can't remember? _That _kiddo?" Libby settled her hand under the pie plate to hold it securely and waved the other in front of his face. "Hellooooo, anybody home?"

Snape frowned. "Harry is recovering nicely, thank you. But he's still slightly contagious. You can't come in."

"What, you'll carry the soup, the pie, and the rolls all by yourself? Take me to your kitchen."

"No."

"It will only take a minute."

"No."

"I'll leave right away—just have a little peek in at your kid."

"No."

"My, getting overprotective, aren't we?" Libby licked her upper lip, her middle-aged face innocent in thought. "And you always had such a prickly reputation at the family reunions. 'Don't mess with the Snape side of the family,' Grandpa always said. 'They carry a grudge like nobody's business, and don't particularly care for much of anything.' I guess all the rumors were wrong—you seem to care pretty strongly about some random youngster you're only looking after for a little while."

Snape growled. "Come in, leave the pie, and go."

She grinned cheerfully. "That was the plan all along."

The ex-Hogwarts professor leaned backward and peered around the living room. No sign of Harry. Perhaps he had disappeared to his bedroom, as he sometimes did. Snape didn't know what the boy did during those periods, and had not tried to find out. It was enough that he didn't have to see that broken, empty expression, the loose-limbed submission to fate. It was downright disconcerting to see in a teen who had always been infuriatingly confident and defiant of every rule.

"All right," he said, turning back to his cousin/landlady. "Make it quick."

He should have known that it was no use giving orders to an American. Libby pottered companionably about the kitchen, humming something under her breath as she set the soup on the stove to keep warm and uncovered the apple pie to slice it for him, as if he couldn't do it himself.

"Leave the rolls covered until you eat, and they'll be nice and soft. Do you have ice cream?" She opened the top part of the fridge, which Snape had not been aware existed, and shook her head at its yawning emptiness. "No ice cream? A sad state of affairs, Sev, a very sad state of affairs. I see I'm going to have to bring you some essentials. Men have no idea of how to shop."

Snape felt himself bristling like a cat, bunching up to probably twice his normal size. He waited in fury for her to turn and meet his eyes, which she did, finally. She obviously wasn't as sensitive to mental summons as most Hogwarts students were. Sweet Merlin, was he actually _missing_ Longbottom?

"Never. Call. Me. That. Again," he said very, very quietly, and very, very firmly.

Unfortunately, Libby wasn't at all perturbed. "What, you mean 'Sev?'" Yes, he was definitely missing Longbottom. "I didn't realize you didn't like nicknames, Severus. Sorry. Won't happen again.

"Anyway," she continued, turning back to the pie and wiping some sticky goop off the knife with her finger to stick it in her mouth. "It's too bad you don't have any vanilla ice cream. This stuff is the greatest a la mode. I guess you'll just have to make do. It'll still be really yummy."

"I don't like apple pie," Severus stated, just to make sure that that was clear between them. He didn't like anything, after all. That was his story and he was sticking to it.

"Oh, you don't?" Libby looked up at him with big, innocent eyes. "Well, your Harry will like it, anyway." She brushed her hands off, evidently finished with that subject. "I'll be going now. But I'll be back."

He reached out to grab her shoulder so he could make sure the coast was clear before she headed toward the door, but she was already three steps into the living room while his hand was still swiping through the air. Then she paused. "Oh, hello, sweetheart. How are you today?"

Snape reached the doorway in time to see Harry's eyes widen until they seemed to take up half his face, then watched the blur of green t-shirt and blue jeans as the boy fled for the sanctuary of his room.

"Whoops," Libby said softly. "I didn't mean to startle the poor dear."

Abruptly she whirled on Snape, her eyes fierce. "You lied to me. That boy isn't sick—he's traumatized."

Snape realized that he was leaning back reflexively, and hated himself for it. "Why—why would you think that?" he sputtered. He hated that, too.

"Oh, for corn's sake, Severus. You think only British children can be emotionally and mentally wounded? I worked in a state-run daycare center for thirteen years. I know a devastated child when I see one." She looked away, still glaring, and muttered, "Bloody British arrogance."

Snape folded his arms across his chest, his eyes narrowing. "That's a very bad word, Libby. I won't have you teaching it to my student."

"Oh, just chill, Severus." Her eyes traveled over the stack of books on the endtable by the sofa, taking in titles like _PTSD and You_ and _"Just Get Over It!" Why This Is Impossible And How to Deal with It Anyway._ "You know full well that I am not the problem here. Are you trying to help him at all? Or just hoping it will go away, like an unwanted cold or a 'slightly contagious' disease?"

"Of course I'm trying to help him! I just don't know how!"

Oops. Snape had not meant to say that. He shut down immediately, glaring at the floor. Even so, he was aware of Libby's suddenly-softened regard still fixed on him. He would not look at her. Nope. Not looking.

"You know, you could try asking," Libby said.

He didn't answer.

"Ah, but that would be too easy, wouldn't it?" Libby answered herself, sighing in exasperation. "Men. What is it with men and directions?"

Stone-cold silence.

"Fine." She threw her hands up in the air. "You don't want me around. You made that clear from the beginning. But I'll be back." A slightly wrinkled, work-worn finger thrust its way toward Snape's face, where he was forced to look at it—that or close his eyes like a petulant toddler. "Maybe not for you, but at least for that poor boy you're supposed to be taking care of."

"I'm taking care of him very well by myself, thank you very much," Snape growled.

"Oh, I have no doubt. You're seeing to it that he eats, apparently. That's good. Taken a liking to Marshmallow Stars cereal, huh? I like to see a man standing up and being responsible. Warms my heart." The words were strangely in contrast with the woman's frosty tone, but Snape chose to ignore her. "If you change your mind about asking for help, my number is still taped to the fridge. And I'll be back in a day or two with those essential groceries you don't know how to get."

Snape listened to her stomp away, the front door slam, the screen door squeaking on its hinges, and the maddening roar of an overcharged American engine as she drove off. Then, and only then, did he raise his head and look around the living room.

"Knew it was mistake to let her in the house . . ." he muttered, heading back toward the kitchen to make sure the unwanted soup wasn't boiling over. He paused in mid-step, something caught in the corner of his vision.

He turned slowly, trying to keep his body still. Harry's head was poking out the doorway of his room, wide green eyes staring at his professor. Curse it all. They shouldn't have been arguing where the boy could hear them. Whatever memories he'd retained surely would have bad associations with raised adult voices.

Harry's eyes widened even further when he noticed Snape looking at him, and his tousled dark head popped back inside the room. Snape sighed.

That hadn't gone well at all.

But then, what did, these days?

"I hate apple pie," he grumbled to himself, finishing his journey into the kitchen.

Some things, at least, didn't change. He was sure of that much, if nothing else.

He would always hate apple pie.


	3. The Talk

**3: The Talk**

Snape had decided that the time had come to Have a Talk.

Though that probably wasn't the right term, really, since Snape was the only one doing any talking. And here he thought he had escaped the life of teaching. Apparently the forces of power in the universe had not yet finished punishing him for whatever crime it was that had earned this.

Only this time he couldn't even make fun of his solitary student. Yet another proof that life in America was actually worse than life in Britain, as hard as that was to believe.

"I feel there are a few things that need to be made clear between us," Snape began. He sat formally in the armchair, clasped hands resting on his knees, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. He knew it was a stretch—maybe he would get better at it with practice.

Harry stared back at him with those enormous green eyes, like a baby bird peering fearfully up out of its nest at the teeth of an approaching cat. He had jammed himself into a corner of the couch, hugging his knees to his chest, stockinged toes wiggling slightly on the floral-patterned cushion though the rest of his body was entirely still. The boy was obviously even more uncomfortable with this situation than Snape was, if it that were possible.

Snape cleared his throat. "Are you listening, Harry? I know that you have chosen not to talk for this time, though of course the _why _of this eludes me." He glared briefly, then remembered himself and made it go away. "Right. As I was saying, you needn't acknowledge me in words, if you don't wish to do so. However, I would appreciate knowing that I'm being heard. I'd like you to nod, or blink, or anything, really. Just let me know that you're listening to me."

For a long time, nothing happened. Then Harry blinked.

Snape decided to accept that as an answer. "Very well. That will do." He nodded firmly, then sat up a little straighter. "I want this to be very, very clear. Harry . . ." The man leaned forward slightly, willing the truth of this to be conveyed in the earnestness of his eyes, the sternness of his voice. It was incredibly important that the boy know and understand this fact. "I will never hurt you."

Harry blinked again.

With another nod, of satisfaction this time, Snape sat back and relaxed slightly. "Yes. That's good. I need you to know that you need never fear me. You have been abused, I am aware of this fact, and you are afraid of everyone. But you needn't be, Harry." He slapped his knee slightly in emphasis, and nearly pointed his finger as the lecturing mode came over him once again. As much as he had always loathed teaching, it seemed that some habits, once learned, would never be lost.

He shook his head to banish that, carefully lowering his hand. "You needn't be," he repeated firmly. "You need not fear me. I will never raise my hand to you in anger. I will not strike you, nor will I . . ." He had to swallow at this one. "Verbally abuse you. I know . . ."

His forehead wrinkled as he paused, pursing his lips. Merlin, this was harder to say than he had expected. "I know I have not been very kind to you in the past . . . though I'm not sure you even remember that. I have been accused of being verbally abusive by various uptight colleagues . . . but let's not get into that right now. I will simply say that, should your memories ever come back to you, I hope you will not hold my past behavior against me. I promise you now that I will not treat you so in the future."

Harry made no response, not even a blink, but his mouth dropped open slightly. It was obvious that he did not believe a word of this.

"I swear it to you, Harry. I swear . . ." Snape cast desperately around for something suitable to swear on. He didn't see a Bible or crucifix or star of David or anything, not that any of those would probably have any meaning to this remarkably messed-up child. At last he slumped in defeat, then plucked his wand from its hiding place in his sleeve with an unnecessary but well-practiced flourish. "I swear on my wand. Without this, I could not do magic." _Not that I can do any magic at the moment anyway, as we're supposed to be hiding. Bloody Death Eaters and their ingenious tracking spells . . ._ "It's my single most important possession, Harry. I might even go so far as to call it my soul. And I swear to you, by this, my soul, that I will never harm you. Do you believe me now?"

Harry blinked several times in succession. It was really too rapid and shocked to be anything but involuntary, but Snape was in no mood to quibble.

"Excellent! I'm very happy that we understand each other."

Snape leaned back in his chair and picked up a book. What else did he need to explain? The sooner he figured it out, the better. Then they could put this all behind them and go back to being teacher and student, though without the verbal abuse, of course. He was very much looking forward to that, to being able to escape the role he was currently being forced to play.

Which was . . . what? Child minder? Guard? Therapist?

By all that was holy, he hoped it wasn't the last one. Severus Snape would undoubtedly be the worst therapist on the face of the planet, and likely in the entire galaxy as well, if there was intelligent life somewhere out there. Even now something was niggling at the back of his mind . . . he'd forgotten . . . what had he forgotten?

At last he glanced up, half in irritation and half in doubt, and saw Harry still staring at him nervously. "Oh." Snape lowered his book and spread one hand. "You may go, if you wish. That was all I wanted to discuss at this time. But we'll be having more talks in the future, I'm sure."

Harry popped out of his fetal position and practically ran into his room, not even bothering to close the door behind him. Snape stared after him for a moment, a bit disconcerted. Had he frightened the boy? In an attempt to _prevent_ him from being frightened?

The world was insane. It had to be.

He turned back to his reading, but could not concentrate. The words were too long and too specific, and nothing was helpful. After reading the same page three or four times, he admitted defeat and tossed the book aside with a fretful grunt. Nothing was working the way it was supposed to. His attempt at reassurance had obviously backfired, and he had no energy to try again.

For a while he stared at the wall, watching the shape of the light coming in the window angle across the surface, shifting gently as the afternoon wore on. The leaves of the tree outside the window were painted in shifting shadows across the cream surface, and the sight was somewhat soothing. Snape could feel himself being hypnotized . . . at last he shook his head and uncrossed his eyes, then looked back down the hall again, frowning lightly.

The door to Harry's room was still open.

Well, it certainly couldn't hurt. Snape couldn't see how anything he did could possibly worsen the situation. With a decisive nod at that impeccable logic, he rose to his feet and carefully made his way to the door, then peeped inside.

The small single bed was a wild disarray of covers and sheets, the pillow missing, and if Harry were himself Snape would no doubt scold him for his untidiness. But everything else in the room seemed completely untouched, as if no one had stepped inside for the past two weeks at all. The bookcase against the far wall stood straight and tall, full of children's picture books and classic novels—all Muggle though, tragically. The nightstand and dresser were also meticulously kept, and the open door of the closet revealed Harry's sparse wardrobe hanging calmly and perfectly on hangers.

And there was Harry, sitting in a corner of the closet with his knees drawn up, clutching the missing pillow to his chest with whitened fingers. His eyes were wide and distant, his face blank. He rocked slightly, almost imperceptibly, a constant motion that would make Snape dizzy if he watched for more than a moment.

And here, at last, Snape caught a glimpse of something he could not name, the thing that had torn away the brash, arrogant, vociferous Harry Potter he knew and replaced him with this frightened, silent child. It was dark and cold and empty and lost, and it resonated in the Potions Master's spirit with a familiarity that terrified him.

It shocked him back a step, and he stood there, blinking, his breath inexplicably accelerated. He tried to shake it off, but could not. "Harry? Harry, what are you doing?"

The green eyes flashed upward, wide and alarmed, and Harry lunged forward, grabbed the bottom of the closet door, and pulled it shut with a resounding _smash._ Snape started at the sound, so loud that it seemed it could not possibly have been produced by this habitually quiet boy.

For a split second he considered forcing his way in and demanding an explanation for this incomprehensible behavior, but he immediately decided against that. The boy apparently felt safe in there, for whatever reason, and it would not do to take away the only sense of security he had found, however pathetic and unsettling it was.

Shaking his head slightly as if to dispel the strange thoughts and feelings that were suddenly tugging at him, Snape turned on his heel and walked back toward the living room. He sat in the armchair and stared at the wall, trying to find a name for what he had seen in Harry, the thing that resonated so familiarly with him.

The light from the window was almost vanished by the time he figured it out, at least partly, and what light remained was tinged red with the death of the sun. He knew it wasn't the entire truth, but there was a word that worked, and he was just a tiny bit pleased with himself for reasoning it out. The sense of the pleasure was completely dwarfed, though, by the other sensations roused by this realization, this small bit he had worked out of the mess of tangled thoughts, pulling it like snarled and knotted thread from an unruly pile of yarn. What he had seen Harry, seen in himself.

Loneliness.


End file.
